“So, tell me, what are some of your fantasies?” X asks B.

B looks at X, not having expected the question, and therefore not having prepared for it, and therefore drawing a blank. 

X prompts, “So, I like being told exactly what to do. If you leave marks, then that’s – it’s done bro, (cackles). But also I have this very specific fantasy, about blindfolds. Both of us blindfolded. Imagine that, dude. Being pressed up against the wall. Pressing you up against the wall.”

B listens. And does not know what to say. B does not think about sex all that much. Well, that’s not entirely true, though it is kind of true. B does think about sex sometimes. And then reads some Very Specific fanfiction. And then comes to a point where they start wondering why they are reading it at all. The urge to read that fanfiction is drained out of them; it now feels distant and unfamiliar, foreign. They do not understand it anymore. 

As B is trying to find the precise words to explain this to X while also sounding cool about it, X is looking at B, air thick with the expectation of an answer. B, sheepish, shy, half-sorry, offers, “Hmm, I don’t know, I don’t think I have fantasies, really. Well, not sexual fantasies, I think.”

And then B pauses, wondering if that is true, and decides that it is not entirely true, and therefore must be explained in Better and Apt-er and Correct-er words. X does not poke at their silence, so B continues, “Well, okay. Fantasy is too strong a word, maybe. There are things which I find, (pause), interesting. Curiosities, maybe that’s what I have – sexual curiosities.” (Pause.) “Is it the same as fantasies, do you think?”

X pauses, too. “Sexual curiosities? What’s that mean?”

B continues, on a surer footing now, to be talking in abstraction, conceptually, “Okay, so like. You have to understand. I have been reading fanfiction since like forever, right? So, uh, I have read smut. Like, I have read smut. A lot of it. A lot. A lot of kinds of smut. So. Like, there’s things which are like, oh that would be interesting to do. Oh, that’s fun to read. So, like, I’m curious about it, and I’d like, to, try this stuff because I’m curious about it. Like, oh, I wonder how one would do That. You know. But fantasy is more like… you really really really want to do something, right? Or like, be done to you, whatever. But yeah. So, I don’t think of it as something that I would like, really really want to do. It’s more like, oh that would be interesting to do, but not like I, want, to do it. You know, whatever, yeah.”

X hmms. And continues tracing the map of the Shire on B’s back with a single finger. B continues to tremble, at the singular sensation of the single finger, and the weight of the peaceful, happy Shire on their back. And then, suddenly, without warning, X presses their lips right at the edge of their freshly finger-mapped Shire, where it meets the yet-unmapped Old Forest, on the banks of the Brandywine River, against the back of B’s neck. Whispers, “So. What are these things you’re curious about? Sexual curiosities.”

“How am I, supposed to, think,” B tries to whine but does not have enough steady breath for it, “when you’re. Doing, (breath, pause), that.” B cannot inflect a question so they let it taper into a statement.

X, mighty pleased with themself, is back to mapping the mountains and valleys of the Shire with the press of their lips, “Forget curiosities. Tell me. Fantasies. Not sexual; just… fantasies.”

B manages to whine this time, properly, “Can’t. Think!”

“Stop thinking bro. Why do you need to think about your fantasies, anyway? They’re fantasies!”

B concentrates on breathing.

X bares their teeth and presses down harder, “Talk.”

B’s breath is caught, right in the throat, suspended. Like the watering corners of eyes overflowing, come words, “You, this, here. Just you, holding. Holding your hand. You kissing my back. You, sitting on the chair and I make chai in the kitchen. I’m reading, and you tell me dinner is done. I’m sad and you, there. You, me, us, waves. Sea. Sea-waves. Dog. A huuuuge dog. Home ownership. Like a small home. And you. You, waking me up with kisses. A good night’s sleep. A fucking good night’s sleep. Brooo, a good night’s sleep, my fucking goodness! You, me, friends over, wine. You, me, kitchen, songs on my phone. Volume, turned down. And you, turning the volume up. You, me, holding hands. You, sitting there, working. Me, coming back from work, and you, sitting there working. And you, coming back from work, and me, getting up to hug you. You. Us, fighting. And then making. No, not making up. Making our way through it. Through the fight. You, crooning, in my ear. Me, asleep. You, talking loudly on your phone, and I, waving annoyed hands at you. Winter, winter evenings. Your sweater, drenched in your scent. Cats, oh my god, cats. And you, this, yess, like that, kiss-(hiss). Kissing my back, just like that. Just like that.”

As B runs out of thought(s), X runs their tongue over the impression of their bared teeth on B’s Shire-back, and then their lips, feather-light.

Image credit: “homes women make” by Aleena Santhosh